At the grocery store a little boy points at me and says, “She’s fat.”

His mother scolds him as well she should. But I’m not the only one. I am not so big as to be singled out.

For some odd reason I feel emboldened. Maybe it’s the French toast I had for breakfast, the added dollops of whipped cream that suffocated the banana slices drowned with syrup. In any event, I walk over to their place in line at the check-out. I do my best to hide the fact that I’m winded from such a short jaunt.

“Hello there,” I say cheerfully to the little boy.

His eyes are wide and mostly white. He tries to shimmy into the folds of his mother’s skirt but she insists that he hold out his hand and shake mine and tell his name.

“How old are you, Mark?”

“Six,” he slurs. He’s missing a top tooth.

“You wanna know why I’m this way?” I realize I’m being vague, but I’ve got an idea.

Mark looks to his mother for help, only she’s busy rolling something over with her eyes.

“Hmm? Do you wanna?”

He starts to shake his head, then shrugs at the last second.

I bend down; get myself face to face with the kid. My belly is a mailman’s bag dragging on the floor but I don’t care.

“When I couldn’t have a baby the right way,” I say, “I ate one.”

Mark’s eyes go white and wide, but I’m not done. “And he was just about your size, too!”

I laugh so hard I’m a mound of jiggling blubber. Tears of joy stream across my cheek. It feels good. It feels right. I keep up with the laughter. People stare, but then again, they always do.